A Painter's Poison
by BeingTherePlayingChess
Summary: Holmes and Watson are hand delivered a new adventure! Who says eccentricity is limited to our beloved consulting detective? My first ever fan fiction, reviews welcomed! (all of the original stories and characters belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, no copyright infringement intended!) A new story with some new faces! Told from the perspective of Doctor John Watson.
1. CHAPTER 1, THE BOX

CHAPTER 1

**THE BOX**

I watched, amused, as my companion shifted languidly in his chair and reached for his pipe. Holmes was deeply absorbed in an old leather-backed volume, and his eyes continued traveling the yellowed pages while his pale, slender fingers explored the currently bare side- table, where his pipe _usually_ lay. I raised the newspaper I myself was perusing, and peeked over the top of the pages, watching my friend's eyes intently. It was a few more moments before realization stiffened his features, and he drew back his hand, looking up at me sharply. I couldn't help but chuckle.

"Watson!" Holmes reprimanded. Laughing heartily this time, I retired the newspaper to my lap and gestured towards the mantle, indicating the pipe's current location. My friend's brow furrowed briefly, clearly marking his agitation.

"Would you be so kind Watson," he began quietly, "as to fetch me my pipe? It seems some careless chap has _accidentally_ misplaced it."

"My dear fellow," I began, indifferent to Holmes' apparent sarcasm, "it is but a short venture to the fireplace. You haven't been out for days, and I'm sure your body would be better for the exercise." Holmes snorted derisively.

"Forgive me. I am grateful for your concern. However, would it not have suited your purposes more adequately to have moved the pipe into the far most corner of the kitchen? It takes at least a fifteen foot journey to properly stretch out one's legs." He grinned at me, and his aquiline features seemed to relax somewhat.

"Only if those legs are as long as yours!" I retorted good-naturedly. Holmes opened his mouth, but quickly jerked it closed again as heavy, irregular steps were heard approaching the door to our quiet little Baker Street parlor. I glanced at my companion, who had deposited his book on the empty side table and sat perched in his seat, as if ready to spring up at a seconds notice. Not two seconds later, a _thud_ rattled the floor slightly, and a crisp _rat-at-tat_ knocked against the wooden doorframe. My companion and I rose together, and after receiving a curt nod of assent from Holmes, I advanced to the door and thrust it wide open.

"Good afternoon," said a strongly built, sandy-haired man with heavy boots. He extended a wiry, calloused hand, which I clasped and shook in greeting. The two other plainly dressed men behind him simply nodded, and Homes' attention and mine was quickly directed to a sturdy wooden box behind them.  
"Either of you gentlemen Mr. Sherlock Holmes, of 221B Baker Street?" Asked the sandy-haired man, his large brown eyes lazily examining our faces. Holmes stepped forward, and bowed slightly.

"I am he. Thank you for safely delivering my statue." _Statue?!_ I thought, thoroughly dazed. _When did Holmes ever_ order_ a statue?!_

After the statue box had been properly deposited in the center of our sitting room, and a few words of business exchanged, Holmes gave each of the movers a half-sovereign for their trouble, and ushered them out the door. As soon as I heard the the footfall descending the stairs recede, I turned to fully face my companion, who had undoubtedly observed my incredulous state and hastily began to speak.

"No doubt you are wondering how I came to presume ownership of this package," he said, gesturing towards the mysterious box. His eyes fixed upon the ceiling and I saw in them a familiar flash of enrapture and wit. **_Wait...is this box a new case?_**

"You are quite right to wonder. I certainly had never laid eyes upon this very special box, not until these very recent moments." Holmes stretched his lithe figure and in a single bound, leapt over to the fireplace. Pulling out his smooth leather tobacco pouch, he was finally able to lift his beloved pipe to his lips. He breathed in deeply and his fingers on the stem twitched with excitement.

**_Oh yes. We had a new case. _**


	2. CHAPTER 2, ON THE MORROW

Alright! Second chapter! Hey, thanks to "Pip the Dark Lord of All" for my first review! It really encouraged me, thanks so much for taking the time to comment! I didn't go into all of Holmes' deductions on the box, I thought it might be too much dialogue, but if you want to know all the explanations on how he made his deductions I am more than happy to share. Just review and let me know! Thanks

**CHAPTER 2 **

**ON THE MORROW**

Holmes had taken up his magnifying glass and was peering round the box we had so surprisingly received not five minutes ago. Running my own fingers against the solid, grainy wood, I glanced repeatedly at my companion, eager to open the package but also knowing my friend's meticulous methods must not be rushed.

"This box is clearly from an artist's studio, I'd say a woman's," Holmes began, stuffing his glass into the inner pocket of his jacket. "The owner likely has a fairly successful art business, but she had a friend make this receptacle. Something of particular value must be inside, but not an item of fragility or conspicuousness."

"And judging from the tallness, and the positioning of the box upright on the smaller of the rectangular sides gave you the idea of a statue being within?" I inquired.

"Indeed," Said Holmes, with a small nod. "I am not certain of it being so- however it is likely."

"But how could you have known of the studio?" I pondered aloud.

"Observe," Holmes began, and as he knelt to the floor I dropped to my own knee to join him. "There are tiny bits of paint and clay, and what I perceive to be a sealant of sorts, clinging to the bottom corners of the container." I nodded, my position on the floor giving me a much clearer view of the evidence on the bottom edges of the box.

"Now, naturally, the location of these smudges would indicate the box resting upright in such a place were it would come into contact with all three of those supplies regularly. What sort of place has paint, clay, and sealant in common use? Clearly an art studio," we both stood, as Holmes had concluded.

"But what about a suppliers?" I offered. "Or a private residence?"

"I considered those," said Holmes, "but a suppliers would not have open containers of such products laying about or in use in such a way as to risk damaging other products and items; as for a private residence, it is the same. It is unlikely a homeowner would keep such products in a large open space amidst their furniture and guests, rather than on a shelf or in a closet. Yet the sole presence of the sealer, clay, and paint on the _bottom_ edges of the box rather than the sides suggests nothing was stacked against it. No. It must have rested in the open spaces of a frequently utilized studio."

"Marvelous." I exclaimed, never failing to be impressed by my friend's careful reasoning. "And the woman?"

"Simple. This tag here, stapled to the wood. It could only be a woman's writing. See the swooping, elegant curves and tails on the letters? And the precise spacing of each word? Clearly this is an artist's hand, and the pressure exerted in applying the ink is distinctly lighter than that of a man's press on the paper." I leaned in, admiring the letters and read- _To Mr. Sherlock Holmes, 221B Baker Street, London. 3pm on the morrow._ Straightening my back from bending to examine the tiny card, I wondered if we were expecting to have a visiter tomorrow afternoon. Hearing a sudden rattle in the kitchen, I noticed my companion had left the room. He returned quickly however, with a sharp carving knife that looked very thin and shiny in his pale hand. I jumped back, surprised, as he determinedly rushed past me and began prying out the nails of the statue box with an alarming alacrity.

When at last the final nail was wrenched out of place and cast to the floor, Holmes wrapped his fingers around a lip on the lid, and with a final heave, revealed the contents of the mysterious box once and for all.


	3. CHAPTER 3, IN AND INSIDE

**CHAPTER 3**

**IN AND INSIDE**

A curious, human-like statue stared at us from inside its wooden prison. Holmes gently lifted it, and placed it on the floor amidst a beam of sunshine that happened to be streaking through the window. It stood about three feet tall, and the sun set a glow bouncing off the perfect white plaster-of-paris. _Plaster?_ I frowned. _Rarely the medium of a completed piece._ The statue was of a man, with a stern square jaw, and wrapped in a long heavy coat. It was an unusual model indeed, for it lacked usual beauty and detail. His placid face was free of the usual effects of time and expression, and his plaster garments were as smooth and unwrinkled as still water. "Hum!" said Holmes, and he knelt, grasping the top-ish of the figure solidly with both hands. Suddenly, and with a violent twist, Holmes had yanked the torso round so that the plaster boots pointed stiffly at the sofa, while its white head gazed stubbornly at the kitchen. "My word, Holmes!" I cried. "Do you aim to destroy the thing?!"

But it had not been destroyed, no indeed- rather, the only evidence of Holmes' abuse was a single deep line, winding itself about the waist of the plaster man as if it were meant to be there. My eyes widened as Holmes then hefted the top of the statue clean off. But of course! The line _was _meant to be there. The whole statue was again another vessel, as its wooden box had been. Holmes had, by "breaking" the statue, merely removed the lid, and now we both peered at the articles within. Paint. Jars and jars of it, filled to the brim and sealed tightly. I reached in my arm, procuring a container of the richest green none but the amazon might boast of. I had just reached for the lid when Holmes caught my hand. "Do not unseal it quite yet, Watson."

"Why-ever not?" I breathed.

"Observing the extraordinary nature of this whole package, and the undoubtedly remarkable reasons for which it was sent, I should say we leave it alone until our client calls at three tomorrow and enlightens us as to the details." Holmes said shortly, replacing the jar to its plaster home and moving the reconstructed statue and wooden box to a safe spot next to his armchair.

"You mean you already have an idea about what this is all about?" I gasped, unbelieving. Holmes shook his head, almost grinning at my credulous expression.

"On the contrary, Watson. I fear that there is not much more I can deduce that would be of particular use to us. I suggest we take our lunch, and wait for our mysterious client for enlightenment tomorrow afternoon."

"Well then. Tomorrow it is," I said, walking over to our door. "And after we sup, the theatre is showing a marvelous, Italian rendition of "La Schebie."

"Marvelous!" Holmes chimed in agreement. I opened our door and leaned over the stairway. "Mrs. Hudson!" I hollered. A few pattering clicks were heard on the wood flooring below, as two petite purple shoes and kindly blue eyes came into view. "What is it John?" She asked, gazing up at me curiously.

"Well you know, it's right about that time in the afterno-" She cut me off with a curt wave of her hand.

"Not your housekeeper dear," she quipped with a smile, clicking out of sight. I turned around and walked back into our sitting room to join Holmes, closing the door behind me. My friend's eyes gleamed with amusement, and I shrugged my shoulders defensively. "It was worth a try," I said, smiling. We both burst into laughter.


	4. CHAPTER 4, A PERFECT CRIME

CHAPTER 4

PERFECT CRIME

The next day, at 8'o clock sharp, there was a hasty, repetitive knock on our door. I was barely awake, and the heavy wooden sound caused quite a tumult in my poor old head. "Holmes!" I shouted. "That must be for you!" It was lucky indeed for our disturber that my friend was already up and busy in the kitchen. Holmes' hours were typically so irregular that I myself had a hard time of it finding him both awake _and_ at home. "Humph!" Came Holmes' reply from the kitchen. He stormed through our sitting room to the door, not bothering to put down the chemical stained tweezers and scalpel he had in his hands. Hardly had my companion unlatched the door when it sprang open, and a long man with eyes too close together stormed in and removed his hat.

"Lestrade," I announced. "Whatever is the matt-"  
"I'll tell you whatever is the matter!" He puffed, throwing his hands in the air. "There has been a murder, with no weapon, and no suspects! No motive, no signs of violence, nothing!" He glanced at Holmes, who had quietly closed our door and was watching Lestrade with one eyebrow raised.

"Mock all you wish sir!" Lestrade cried passionately. "But the truth is, the truth is- well, the truth is I suppose I need your help Mr. Holmes, if you and the good Doctor would be so kind as to lend your services." The inspector had, seemingly, calmed down during this speech and Holmes graciously bid him sit down.

"There is no such thing as the perfect crime, Inspector Lestrade. You may cheer yourself with that knowlege." Holmes said factually, as Lestrade positioned himself on our sofa.

"Do tell us of your quandary, sir." I said.

"It is Mr. Ward Greyland," Lestrade sighed. "He was a rich gentleman who lived a few miles from Aiplendare. His wife died a few years back, but their son, Rikael, still lives here in London. Mr. Greyland was an average, well-bred, sixty-five year old man; once a director of the largest bank in Aiplendare. He ran the bank well, and had many friendly acquaintances. His habits were regular for a man of his station, and I'd say his only fault was stubbornness. Apparently Mr. Greyland was prone to moving heaven and earth to see that his opinions were realized." Holmes nodded slowly, lacing his fingers under his chin and gazing intently at the Inspector.

"And the murder?"  
"Right," said Lestrade, sighing once more. "Mr. Greyland's body was found in his private office at six-fifteen this morning, by the maid that usually serves him breakfast. He had been dead a number of hours, presumably since last evening, and was still positioned in his chair with a lamp burning and an inked quill near his hand. No signs of a break in, or any wound to his person."

"Poison then," Holmes stated.

"Undoubtedly," the Inspector sputtered, "but how was it ingested? There was no evidence of food or drink, or even cigar ashes."  
"The murderer could have carried the evidence out," I volunteered.

"No Sir," Lestrade shook his head firmly. "There was no sign of forced entry and no clues supporting an inside job. It is utterly exasperating, and I must implore you to examine the situation for yourselves. I take a cab to Mr. Greyland's estate in fifteen minutes, do I have your help here, Mr. Holmes?" Holmes and I looked at each other, and I shrugged my shoulders.

"I suppose I see no harm in evaluating the scene," said Holmes quietly. "However, we will leave after a quick while. There is a client coming at three this afternoon"


	5. CHAPTER 5, THOUGHT AS MUCH

**CHAPTER 5 **

**THOUGHT AS MUCH**

As the three of us sat in the dark cab, rattling through the streets of London, I wondered about Mr. Greyson's murder. Although I could not see the ending myself, I was sure that for Holmes this would be an open and shut case. Even the most pleasant of men can have a secret enemy, and poison can be administered in a thousand ways. I stole a sideways glance at Holmes. It was clear by the expression on his face that he was not thinking about Mr. Greyson, or even the mysterious paints and statue that rested beside his chair at home. No, Mr. Holmes was off in his own little world, and I envied his escape. Inspector Lestrade was not the most amiable traveling companion, and I longed to reach Aiplendare, even if a ghastly crime awaited us.

We finally reached the late Mr. Greyson's estate. Our boots crunched the dried out leaves scattering the path to the house, and a light wind threatened to chill our faces. The house and yard were expansive, and richly maintained. Mr. Greyson had definitely been a successful businessman.

I expected Holmes to comb the grounds meticulously, for a wayward shoe print or other such detail. Instead, he marched straight inside, finding his way through the lavish hallways into the dimly-lit private office. There sat the body, posed quite naturally in his chair. Holmes glanced twice across the room. Everything was as the inspector described. The lamp had been put out, however, and the curtains pulled open. I squinted, stepping into the sunshine coursing in from the windows, and leaned over the pale body. Holmes quickly joined me, peaking under the man's stiff eyelids and sniffing his colorless lips.

"It's true Holmes," I muttered, glancing at my companion seriously. "Between the physical evidence and the events leading to his death, there seems to be nothing that could have poisoned this man." Holmes eyed me wearily.

"There must have been a way, obviously." He said, indicating toward the dead man's eyes. They were blue. Not just the iris, but the whites as well were shot with pale blue streaks.

Holmes looked about the room once more, and I tried to follow his gaze. The room was elaborate, to say the least; there were books and vases and paintings scattered throughout. Holmes' eyes latched onto a painting of the ocean, hanging above a table with the extinguished lamp resting upon it. It was a beautiful picture, about three foot across and two feet tall, composed of a toss of yellows and blues and greens in light and waves and brush strokes. In two steps my companion had reached the painting, lifted it off the wall, rubbed a bit of loose plaster with his thumb, tucked the painting under his arm, and bounded out the door. "Holmes!" Lestrade cried, leaping after him. "Holmes! Where are you going?"

"If you would remember sir," my companion said calmly, without losing a step in his pace. "If you would remember, I have a client coming at three." And with that, he nodded brusquely, and disappeared down the hallway, the painting still stuffed under his arm.

We made it back at to our quarters at ten till three. At three p.m. exactly, a sharp Tik Tik was heard at our door, as though a cane rapped against it irritably. Holmes opened the door to find a woman in her early thirties, with raven black hair and simple garments. She held a cane in a partly shriveled left hand, and her remarkably clear eyes pierced us with her gaze. "I suppose I am not unexpected?" she said quietly, almost in a whisper.

"No indeed," exclaimed Holmes. "We have been looking forward to your enlightening presence all day." "Is that so?" She almost smiled. "My name is Vallarie Nindt… You received my package?"

"Yes." Holmes nodded and gestured to the sofa. "But if you would please sit down. I'm sure you have quite the story to tell, and my friend and I would be ever so pleased to hear it." She nodded her head, and as she took her seat her eyes lighted upon the package nestled beside Holmes' chair. Not the package, I corrected myself. Her package. Even as she thought of it Holmes drew it out and perched the strange little statue in the center of the room. Settling himself comfortably back in his chair once more, he drew out his pipe and lit it. Ms Lindt understood this cue and at once began her narrative.

"The paints I sent you-" she said, gesturing towards the odd unfinished statue. "-are of particular value. I made them myself, you see, and added a certain chemical element to create a certain brightness of color that is rather my signature. I don't keep very much of it at once, but I had recently had a bit left over from a painting I recently completed. I arrived at my shop four days ago, and discovered that quite a significant amount of it had been depleted from my stores—"  
"How much exactly?" Interrupted Holmes.  
"Why, I should say enough for about one significantly large painting," she said. "I can't remember the exact amount." Holmes nodded. "—Anyway," she continued, "I was quite worried that any amount of it should be missing at all. It seemed quite unlikely that the paint would be duplicated and sold, as it is not valuable in that fashion, and whoever endeavored to use the paints would most certainly be discovered as the colors are quite distinguishable. Do you see? It makes no sense at all what purpose a thief could have with them, and so I delivered the remaining supply to you." As she concluded, I could see the full weight of this conundrum weighing upon her knitted brow. Holmes' eyes glittered, and he stood from his chair, and quite suddenly disappearing into his bedroom. He returned again just as quickly as he had gone, only now he was proudly displaying the painting taken from the late Mr. Greyson's office. Ms. Nindt's eyes widened in shock, and she gaped ridiculously, springing out of her seat and towards the painting with an extended finger.

"Those are them!" She cried. "MY colors! MY paints! Wherever did you get this piece?"

Holmes just chuckled.

"Wait!" I exclaimed, " you did not do this painting yourself, Ms. Nindt?"

She shook her head voraciously.

"Astounding! Who else could have?" I cried.

"Exactly my question," my companion mused. "I suggest we all return to our seats while I ask Ms. Nindt. my remaining questions." We acquiesced immediately, and Holmes set the ocean painting to rest against the paint box beside his chair. "For the sake of efficiency, Ms. Nindt, I propose a system of inquiry. Every question I ask, you may answer with one word- spare details unless I ask them of you directly. Is that consent-able?"

"Yes," she agreed.

"Excellent!" Holmes said, cracking his knuckles and resting his chin on his hands. "You are a successful artist, Ms. Nindt, but I'd say you prefer to do most of the work around your studio yourself, is that correct?"

"Yes."

"I'd even venture to say that those who help with manual tasks are friends of yours?"

"Usually."

"But you recently made an exception?"

"Yes."

"Because of an advertisement or such for additional help?"

"Just so."

"Did you keep your paints within sight of heavier objects, such as large boxes or sculptures that you sometimes require help to move?"

"Yes."

"Did you know the late Mr. Greyson?"

"I knew a little of him."

"Through a friend of yours?"

"Yes, his son."

"Do you know much of his son's history with his father?"

"Some."

"Ha! I thought as much. You must know more than just 'some', Ms. Nindt, or your cheeks would not be coloring so. And was it not this son, Rikael, I believe was his name; whom you had deliver me your package?"

"Yes!"

"What!" I interrupted. "The sandy-haired fellow?!"

"The _very_ one!" Holmes smiled.


	6. CHAPTER 6, BLUE ANSWERS

**CHAPTER 6**

** BLUE ANSWERS**

The next day Holmes was busy at his chemicals. After Mrs. Nindt had gone, Holmes had moved straight to his worktable, and had been there ever since. I was itching to know what he was working on and why, but I knew better than to disturb him. I figured it had something to do with the poison method used to kill Mr. Greyson. Holmes had established that it was indeed Rikael who had murdered his father. The simple history of father-son conflict related to us by Ms. Nindt, combined with the evidence against him in Holmes' mind, was enough to convince us of the fact. Rikael, Ms. Nindt had told us, was a creative person. She had always believed he could have been a very good artist. This was Rikael's opinion as well. His father Mr. Greyson, however, was a respectable businessman, and believed Rikael should be one as well. Or at least, Greyson had declared, Rikael must choose a more practical job; one which made consistent money. And so, Rikael was forced either to take up a more practical trade or, thanks to Mr. Greyson's stubbornness, be completely disinherited. Rikael had protested at first, but then had recently sought to make amends with his father, and had taken up carpentry as a seemingly permanent occupation.

"I thought he had taken it all quite well!" Mrs. Nindt had gasped.

"Quite well indeed!" I huffed, frowning. "He's a ghastly criminal!"

"AHA!" Holmes cried. "How imaginative this man was! The artistry in this poison is quite complimentary." I immediately rushed to my friend's side. His hands were stained with a blue chemical, and a small-ish beaker with a clear solution was bubbling over a heat source. "You have figured it out then," I inquired eagerly.

"Yes," said Holmes calmly. "Here is what happened. Rikael had more than one inheritance. Besides gaining his father's immense wealth, he had also inherited his determinedness of character. Rikael wanted to follow his passion for art, and was willing to go to unspeakable lengths to insure his own happiness. Holmes shrugged his shoulders and continued. "So he devised a plan to eliminate his father, that he might gain his full inheritance and live comfortably without any resistance to his pursuing an artistic profession."  
"Leave it to an artistic fellow to develop eccentricity," I chuckled. "But this narrative is intriguing Holmes, please continue."

"The critical point in his plan was that he should not attract any suspicion. Any suspicion at all from the authorities might put him at once in risk of losing his inheritance, which was one of the main objects of his pursuit. No, Rikael needed to maintain endearment to his father, which would allow him more opportunity for the murder, as well as fool everyone else as to the real state of their relationship. As Rikael was formulating a baffling plan of murder, he likely stumbled upon Ms. Nindt's advertisement, or heard from someone else that she was seeking additional help in her studio with carpentry tasks and manual labor. Some devil in his mind responded to this new knowledge, and his murderous plan was carried out thusly; he established himself as a carpenter immediately, for the benefit of his father. He approached Ms. Nindt as an eager candidate for the position helping with manual labor, knowing that it would give him access to her shop, and her paints. Having secured this position, it was easy enough to move forward. He ascertained the paints, created the painting, and gave it to his father. His plans moved slowly- he couldn't risk being suspected of anything. Rightly so, Rikael speculated that Mr. Greyson would place a sentimental decoration such as a gift from his son, in his private office. It was only a matter of time then before the brilliancy of his deviousness was carried through.  
You might have noticed me working diligently with my chemicals earlier. I had indeed made an excellent discovery. If you would remember, Mrs. Nindt mentioned that there was a certain chemical component she added to her home-made paints. I carefully examined the makeup of this chemical, as well as the composition of an extraction of paint taken from the piece previously occupying Mr. Greyson's office. They were a match, upon all but one account. The painting from Greyson's quarters contained Mrs. Nindt's extra ingredient— as well as an oxidizing agent, comparable to an aerosol. It must have been lightly coated over the face of the masterpiece- like a shiny seal, encapsulating an impending doom. All it took was for Mr. Greyson to light a lamp, a candle, a fire- and through the process of combustion, a catalyst for breaking the seal and releasing the airborne chemicals had been born. You must have noticed, Watson, the blue streaking the victim's eyes. It was exactly the same hue as the ocean splashing over the painting I removed from Mr. Greysons personal office, where the body itself was found. It was really very more than likely then, that a symptom of such coloring would be indicative, rather than coincidental, as has proven the case." Holmes paused here, his chin tilted towards the ceiling, as if the satisfaction of solving such a boggling case hovered above him in the rafters. A few more seconds passed by, before he snapped back into the conversation. "I shall inform Lestrade immediately, of the method in which our killer completed his dark task."  
"Indeed, Holmes!" I uttered, amazed. "I find it most fortunate on many occasions that you are so adept with chemistry, and in this case your skills proved a formidable ally. Well done sir, you are the true artist in this adventure!" I could see a bit of humor twitching at the corners of Holmes' mouth.

"You mean at the art of sleuthing?" He mused.

"Of course Holmes, of course!" I laughed, and Holmes turned his gaze upward once more. I thought he had dismissed my compliment, but his nonchalant manner was only a guise- one glance at his face and I knew he was secretly pleased.

THE END


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